


Barren

by jubah



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 16:25:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jubah/pseuds/jubah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pharazôn seeks something. Míriel would offer nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barren

 

Resignation follows the familiar sound of heavy, slow steps approaching her room in the dead of the night.

Nowadays Pharazôn hardly ever bothers her evenings, except when wine causes pride to overrule his frustration at the state of his family affairs. Then the King marches to the Queen's chambers, full of purpose and determination, like a hero marching over conquered land.

She sighs deeply.

There are guards outside her doors, but they are _his_ guards, and she is _his_ wife; it's his kingdom, his rules, his authority. For her own sake, Míriel shuts her mouth, but in her mind he is neither king nor husband (much less a cousin who was once held dear in her heart). _Thief_ she names him, thief and things worse. It's true these thoughts no longer cause her sadness, but the anger, even hidden away in the depths of her heart, has never quite dulled.

He opens the door with much more force than necessary, and her maids wake up and leave in a hurry, deserting the room with practised discretion. When Míriel finds the strength to sit and look up, he's already crossed her chambers with large steps, and stands very close to the bed, looking down on her. Tall and haughty, chin high and stance firm, adorned in gold and silks - apart from the smell of wine, he looks every bit the king she knows he is not. She was under the impression he was smiling when he entered, but now he seems solemn, thoughtful even. _It is the wine_ , she knows, and half wishes she was drunk herself.

Míriel lowers her gaze first, and moves to blow out the candles, but a strong hand grips her ankle and she stops. He greets her - _My queen, cousin, your lord husband has come to claim his rights_ \- and suddenly his expression turns hungry.

She has to wonder at that. Beaten, usurped, silenced and conquered, deserted by now powerless friends and denying him an heir, Míriel has nothing that Pharazôn could not find, more willingly and generously granted, from other people. She herself will not offer him anything except the hollowness he carved on her soul and body with his own hands. And yet he seeks, as greedy in his taking as unsatisfied by it. He crawls on the bed, boots and all, and Miriel hides her disgust deep in her heart, showing no expression, pretending she's made of hard cold wood like the Nimloth tree ( _The Nimloth tree does bear fruit, though_ , a sharp voice in her mind reminds her, but she ignores it).

He pushes her on the bed (still gentler than their nuptials) and she concentrates on burning candles, on pretending the rustling of fabric belongs to the curtains and not to her own nightdress being hiked up to her waist, on anything that distracts her from this recurrent nightmare. And yet a surprised gasp escapes her mouth when, instead of the expected pain of a rough intrusion, there is a warm hand caressing her tights, sneaking up and touching between her legs with foreign gentleness. The confusion is too much; she looks up despite herself, and there he is: Pharazôn, on his hands and knees over her, expectantly looking at her face as his fingers touch--

She realises suddenly just what he is trying to do. The sudden nausea is so powerful that, for once, Míriel can't help the immediate twisting of her face in a grimace of pure disgust.

Pharazôn's face twists in answer - an angry snarl as he draws his hand away and pulls her legs apart, all gentleness gone. Angry, she turns her own head to the side - _what could Pharazôn be thinking?_   She hates this, these moments when he tries to coax something besides indifference from her, the most. _Does he think to offer me a little kindness as consolation for all that he stole, all that he did?! Does he think gentle words or caresses could ever...._ she bites her lip as his forehead comes down between her neck and shoulder, crying tears of anger despite herself, and prays to whoever might answer that this time he will not be so drunk as to fall asleep immediately after his vicious ministrations of her body.

Instead, after finishing with a rude sound, he pulls his body up, still inside her, and barks at her to look at him through heavy uneven breaths. He looks wrathful, and dares look somewhat hurt as well. Míriel, all of her distant coldness replaced with hate, can only think of the violence she wishes upon him. _You have no right! How could you, how dare you? You have no right!_

Pharazôn slams down a heavy hand on her lower belly, and she gasps more at the surprise than at the pain. "You are my wife!" he yells, and painfully pushes his hand against her body. "My wife, and you shall give me a son, whether you like it or not! I will put a son in you, Zimraphel! You shall obey your lord and give me my heir, do you hear me? You shall obey!"

Her maids flock back to her room after he storms off and, exhausted, she orders a bath and new bedclothes. The youngest girl says its too late, _my lady_ , but Míriel corrects her sternly - _I'm not your lady, I'm your queen_ \- and sends her and the other maids anyway. The nightdress is discarded on the floor, as, alone, Míriel goes to the window. She can see Nimloth from there: the trunk shines almost eerily, reflecting the light of the moon. The chill of winter still lingers and makes her shiver, far from the hearth as she is, but she can see them clearly (or she fantasizes she can, despite the darkness): little leaves spotting the white wood with new green, a promise of spring despite the coldness.

Míriel rarely ever prays anymore, but under the weight of unbearable loneliness, she finds herself softly asking (begging) for guidance, for strength, for spring to come for her as well. Her maids finally come in with the bath, but they do not speak the Old Language (they are not _her_ maids, after all), and dare not disturb their queen even when she seems to have gone quite mad, muttering alone and naked by the window, cold winds blowing straight past the ghost of a bygone era.

**Author's Note:**

> All my thanks to Kate for the headcanon talk, for being a wonderful beta, and such a patient friend!! Thank you so much!


End file.
